


Nocturne in F minor

by pocketsfullofmice



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dubious consent and dubious meals, M/M, Oral Fixation, but what about the dogs???, catacomb!sex, face-fist-fucking, jizz in my pants, wall!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsfullofmice/pseuds/pocketsfullofmice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, for one reason- two reasons, a multitude- he trusts the man behind him. One of them wants to be forgiven, but just who that is has grown muddy.</p><p>Post-S03x02</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne in F minor

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, first fic in, uh, a very long time. But season 3 is so very, very gay, and I had to write something that's been playing in my head for quite a while. 
> 
> For Sal.

and when he looks up he can almost see the dew on the stone walls above the candles evaporating, smoke drifting upwards to the ceiling where one has been blown out. Wax drips down the candle, collecting along the holder until it grows heavy and drops to the stone floor. He's tempted to reach out and touch it, drip it into the palm of his hand and feel it cool.

The air is cool enough in the catacombs that his fingertips tingle, curling instinctively towards his palms before they grow numb. Now that he's stopped running, the sweat on the back of his neck, his chest, his armpits begins to chill. He's briefly reminded of fall days on the boat, the spray of brine on his face. He wonders if Buster is enjoying his new home and if they new owners are monitoring his diet.

As he lets out his held breath, a puff of smoke in front of his face on exhale, he hears a shuffle of feet somewhere in front of him, to his left. Pazzi is much further away, having head south to his north. A ripple of tension makes its way through his body, and with another breath, he shuts his eyes and lets the anxiety go. 

When he had announced his plans, Alana had asked him if he wasn't afraid of being caught. At the time, he didn't have an answer. Now he does; he needs to learn to be afraid. Poor decisions have always been his forte. 

He wonders if his dogs miss him.

The footsteps sound across the stone, gravel-ridden floor, so recognisable to Will and reminiscent of the expensive leather shoes that once crossed his driveway. They move slowly, a wide arc, and he counts them, ( _fourteen, fifteen_ ) face still up to the ceiling ( _twenty-seven, twenty-eight_ ), another breath, his head falling to the right, his shoulders rolling first up and then down ( _fifty-three, fifty-four_ ) exposing the side of his neck in a way that had once been unconscious and now took on a far more deliberate ( _sixty-five, sixty-six_ ), expectant meaning. His jacket is still done up, only the front of his throat exposed, the crook of his neck and shoulder hidden beneath the thick canvas. But even beneath the canvas and down, the warmth the jacket provides, the hair on the back of his neck still stands on end when the footsteps come to a stop behind him.

There's a moment- brief, temporary- where he feels the need to say hello. His earlier statement still hangs in the air, just out of reach, clinging to the catacombs like the dew. Pazzi will hear, though, and Will struggles to draw his breath back in when a warm breath ghosts just behind his ear, the touch of a brow brushes along the back of his head. He keeps his eyes shut; to open them would be to shatter reality. He still loses time these days, but keeping his eyes closed, locking the world out, makes it all the easier to go by. 

And, for one reason- two reasons, a multitude- he trusts the man behind him. One of them wants to be forgiven, but just who that is has grown muddy.

The fingers on his throat are freezing, the nails, short but sharp, biting into the soft underside of his throat as they tilt his head up and back. His weight teeters on his heels, though he doesn't quite go, not quite leaning all his weight into Hannibal's chest and shoulder. There's always been a slight struggle, a need for Hannibal to earn his pliancy, to lure him in. The pursuit was Will's favourite part, the capture Hannibal's.

The buttons are plucked and pulled at, the jacket unfamiliar to the fingers that had once known the entirety of his limited wardrobe. Will almost laughs as he finally undoes them in a fumbling way, but he swallows any noise as the zip rattles as it's pulled down, the plastic teeth clicking. The henley beneath the thick coat, though, is old and familiar, and he's rewarded with the smallest of grunts; whether it's one of disapproval or pleasure is harder to read. He'd always refused gifts. Either way, the neck is pulled to the left roughly, distorting the shape (already distorted, the elastic long since stretched out of shape, never quite sitting flat again, the uppermost buttons replaced time and time again). There's no immediate sinking of teeth, no familiar hot tongue on his carotid, the dizziness that came as it was sucked, his vision growing hazy and black as his brain cried out for oxygen.

He waits.

They both do.

As Hannibal's lips rest just off his neck, caught against the stone-cold air and warm breath on his flesh, his shirt is slowly pulled up at the front. Hannibal makes no attempt to warm his hand as it runs over his skin. He'd never been what people would call a selfish lover, but he'd never taken his time in warming his hands up, laying out the rose petals as it were. His fingers run along the scar, immediately knowing where it starts, where it ends. A tremble runs along Will's spine, his whole body shuddering in response to the too-intimate touch. 

Everyone wanted to see it. Nobody dared to ask. Maybe he would have, merely to repulse them, keep them further away.

He wonders if Winston is getting along with Applesauce.

'You said you forgive me. But did you miss me?' 

He can feel Hannibal's words against his skin, echoing inside his cavities, running along his bones, filling his marrow. He leans back further, arching his chest up as the fingers tap along the keloid, finding the spot near the middle that still tugs when he stretches, still occasionally fills with blood that dribbles out when pricked with a needle. An anxious habit, reminiscent of the way he occasionally pressed his digits into thumbtacks as the start of each new teaching period.

The hand on his shirt releases and rests instead on the front of his throat. The pressure is heavy enough to restrict the gurgle that forms in the back of his throat, urging him back just a touch further, pushing, coaxing him to submission. Hannibal never asked him to; he merely waited, knowing his patience would pay off.

'When did the _saudade_ start? How long did you wait until you admitted it to yourself?' 

There's a pause, but an answer isn't expected. Will only takes as deep a breath as the hand on his throat will allow and tries not to flinch as the tender spot on his scar is pinched. 

'I imagine it started the moment I left you to Abigail.'

He finally falls back against Hannibal, and he's rewarded, at last, with Hannibal's mouth on his pulse point, heartbeat rapid, despite the fading adrenalin in his veins. His arms are limp by his sides, though his fingers stretch and search for purchase, not wanting to give in and grab at the man behind him. Touching him had always destroyed the moment for him. He'd always enjoyed the feigned ignorance, the way his aloofness had put them almost on equal footing. Straining his fingers, he finds the corner of a pillar to his right, a scrape of wall to his left, just as Hannibal bites, hard enough for his breath to catch in his throat.

Pazzi won't hear; he'd see them before he'd hear them. But Will shivers all the same, shuts his eyes tight, never having opened them once, and feels the warm mouth leave his neck. The fingers slip out from under his shirt, Hannibal's presence disappearing from behind him for a moment. He pictures him looking around, that slow, cursory way of his. To his left, he hears the expensive leather shoe shuffle on the ground and the sound of the candle being snuffed out. Even behind his eyelids, there's a sense of growing darkness. He dares to open his eyes just barely, through his lashes as he's pivoted on his foot and his cheek is suddenly kissing the cold stone wall. The jacket is crushed between them, and he can feel the chill on his chest and stomach from the wall. Hannibal doesn't leave much room for him, pressing close behind, fingers suddenly to his lips. 

He forces his fingers in, knuckles bruising his lips against his teeth. Almost gagging, his knees buckling, Will finds the last of his willpower slipping away. Hannibal's hand cups his lower jaw as he tilts his head up, spit running down to his chin. He knows the taste of flesh far too well now, the smell of it cooking, the seasoning it suits. How it feels beneath his own hands, pulling it from the bone, opening it up, morsels of it melting against his tongue.

He remembers Hannibal's own skin under his hands, his nails raking down his chest or back. Welts forming as he bit, the man seeming to delight in Will's own brand of ferociousness, coaxing and daring him to be rougher with a smug, amused smile dancing over his lips behind the privacy of locked doors. Will's submission wasn't only about yielding to him; it was about drawing out the beast within. Bruises would fade, open wounds would heal; broken skin would be a worthwhile price to pay if it meant luring and keeping Will by his side. 

Looking back, Will thinks Hannibal only needed to ask.

He wonders if Donna's teeth are being brushed. The awful underbite always caused problems.

The hand slips out from his shirt. He feels the knuckles brush over his thigh, the back of his slacks. He knows what Hannibal's doing, the whisper of fabric as it slides open. He swallows, managing to avoid coughing as he feels the fingertips along the back of his throat. There's the slightest hint of noise from Hannibal, a twitch from his hand. There's a tremble in his touch as he tugs at the worn belt on Will's hips (does he remember it from that night? His photographic memory would have seen it. Can he tell it was taken from the bag of evidence?), that cool reassurance disappearing for a moment. 

His neck had always ached, his shoulders burned for days afterwards. His lips would be swollen, red, purple, blue, the occasional cut where he split his lip with his own teeth. Hannibal's predilection for hand-feeding him had grown as far as Will had allowed it, until he'd squeeze the back of his head, pulling at his hair, fucking- because that was the word for it, no matter how it was dressed up- fucking his mouth with his hand, two, three, four fingers, until his jaw felt broken and he'd sink to his knees, Hannibal following him down until he collapsed. He'd gag and spit up, and he'd be aching and wanting more, and on it would go, him chasing Hannibal's fingers until Hannibal wound up looking at him, dizzy and confused and chest heaving. Will would have the taste of meat in his mouth, still unusual at the point, but growing familiar, basil in his hair, ginger staining his shirt, flour on his knees. He'd take him on the kitchen floor, hand holding his head to the tiles, where he could see under the spotless counters to the wall opposite.

Nobody ever asked.

Nobody's around now to see him try to recreate it.

He wonders if Rufus still anxiously bites his tail. He wonders if the fur grew back.

The air is cold on his bare thighs, his cheeks, his cock, hard and wet at the tip. He doesn't try to touch it, doesn't try to guide Hannibal's hand. He only pushes against the wall and rolls onto the balls of his feet and teeters back until he feels Hannibal's own erection between the cleft of his ass. The soft, velvety skin makes him hiss, and he feels a soft, plosive breath on the back of his neck. He steps back, just far enough to prevent Will from teasing him.

'When did the cravings start, Will?' His voice sounds thin. It wavers, enough for Will to drag his nails down the wall. 

The fingers are pulled from his mouth. His jaw feels swollen, and it cracks as he goes to close it. Despite being coated in his saliva, they're nowhere near wet enough for what he wants, but Hannibal still runs them over Will's entrance. Somehow, miraculously, he avoids making a noise as the tip of his index finger pushes in, teasing him open. He still purses his lips shut, even as his head falls back on the man's shoulder, hips arching up as his middle finger presses in. Only the tips move, silent and yearning for more. He wants more, and he wants to demand it. He could sink down, force himself on Hannibal's fingers, even though it would hurt. But despite all the poor decisions he's made in his time having known Hannibal, he won't go that far. He won't force an injury like that. It's not until Hannibal's thumb presses against his perenium that Will mewls, the tiny, pathetic sound seeming so much louder than it really was. 

Hannibal's free hand slips back up his shirt and finds the scar, pressing it hard as his cock slides between Will's thighs. The slick head brushes against his balls, and though his mouth opens and his eyelashes flutter along his cheeks, he ultimately remains silent and keeps his eyes closed. Hannibal's mildly louder, his grunts barely audible, rhythmic and in time with his thrusts. His knees tremble, and though he wants to let them buckle, the hand on his hip keeps him upright, albeit barely standing. The fingers scratch at the scar, worrying the sensitive spot until he feels the skin give in and split, blood dribbling out.

This hadn't been what he'd been aching for since Hannibal left, but it was a taste of it. He'd take what he could get.

Straining back, Hannibal's fingers stretching him slightly, feeling them twist so intimately (and far too shallow for his liking), he rocks up. There's the drag of Hannibal's erection between his thighs, the tug of skin-on-skin. When he comes, jaw open and mouth slack, it's with a strangled grunt, sounding almost pained by it. It's been building up for months, and he can't bring himself to feel ashamed for how quick he's lost himself. Hannibal's teeth sink into his shoulder, partially on skin, partially into the fabric of his shirt. His jacket has been a constant barrier between them, but he can still feel his heat, his weight, his heartbeat against his back.

'Guess it was after our first breakfast,' he breathes in response to the question asked what seemed so long ago.

When he comes, Hannibal grunts into Will's shoulder, his fingers pressing hard into his hip, the others curling, crooking slightly within him. His thighs are sticky with come, the erection between his thighs moving with slighter ease. Will breathes hard, pushing his knuckles against the wall to keep himself upright. Hannibal won't help him here. There had always been something so intimate about Hannibal's orgasms, and here, in these deathly silent catacombs, he holds onto it, locks it into his memory, his folder of desires.

Somewhere in the distance, there's the sound of expensive leather shoes on stone.

He wonders if the dogs were destroyed in one fell swoop, or if they were picked off over a series of days.

His knees give out and he drops to the ground, heavy, heels of his hands scraping on the wall. Blood blooms, and he stares at it in the dim, flickering candlelight as he turns to lean against the wall. He can't quite catch his breath. Swallowing hard, wiping his sweaty upper lip on the back of his hand, he falls back onto his heels.

'Will?'

There's no need to look up. It's Pazzi, standing only a few feet away. Will eyes his shoes in the dim, remaining light. They're scuffed, well-worn, but with a certain level of neatness. He'll chase after criminals, but he spends time in the office. He needs to look neat. Well presented. They would have pinched his toes once, but he gritted through it until they molded to his feet. 

'What're you doing on the ground?' He speaks slowly, comfortable enough with English to use contractions, despite the heavy accent.

He considers the question. As he looks up, he sees Pazzi looking about for Il Mostro. He's not there; he's long fled, disappearing into the cold black. He smiles as he comes up with his answer, tired, wry. His thighs are sticky, and he's sweltering under his done-up coat. His bleeding scar is staining his shirt. He tugs at the front of the jacket, capturing the shirt beneath, and tugs it away. He stinks like a teenager, but he doesn't think Pazzi will sniff him out. He certainly wouldn't guess the truth.

'Chasing ghosts.'

When Pazzi looks back at him, he turns immediately, looking down the corridor Hannibal escaped. It'll be warmer outside, though just barely. The catacombs are always cold and secretive. But the sweat clings to him, the way it had in years gone past, when nightmares filled his head and rattled him during the day. He curls his fingers into his palms, feeling the press of teeth to his neck that his mind had built up, the fingers inside him that had felt as real as they'd once been in the past.

Pazzi holds his hand out for Will to take, but he ignores it for the time being. He keeps looking to the corridor, mind muddled. A candle to the left of Pazzi's head catches his eye and when he looks up he can almost see the dew on the stone walls above the candles evaporating, smoke drifting upwards


End file.
